junkyard poetry

it's too cold to sit here outside
but I pretend the street lights is really sunshine
- and who are you to tell me that I'm wrong?
that the flowers are really strip club flyers
and that it's just the traffic, not city birds' song

it's too cold to sit here in the park
but I pretend it's summer to warm my heart
- and who are you to tell me that I don't belong?
that the park is really the city graveyard
and the bench is some poor bastard's tomb?